Hammer and Shield
by idkwmgtis
Summary: Though the warriors of Fire Emblem face many a dangerous foe, and fight many unwinnable battles, there's always a sense of hope to the worlds, due in no small part to the camaraderie of the hero's warbands. What happens when the universe collides with one where the hope left the world a long time ago? History will change, as the Skaven scurry through the worlds of Fire Emblem!
1. Chapter 1 -Flight from the Mortal Realms

Author's Note:  
Welcome to this story! (Maybe I'll finish this one…)  
Fire Emblem is an old franchise, and the worlds of sword and soldiers that they depict have always struck me in a certain way, even at an early age.

But even at its darkest, there's always been a certain layer of hope… so what happens when it collides with a world where the hope left a long time ago? (So long ago that the world was literally blown up by just a few of the bad guys and nine more worlds popped out of the debris)

I realize that this is like the third Fire Emblem story I've written but I'm hoping since Warhammer Fantasy is a smaller niche than ever it'll be an interesting piece.

I will say that this is more for exposing FE fans to a different universe than WFB fans to the FE universe… as there are considerably less WFB fans!

Please leave your feedback afterwards! Thanks for reading!

Also, I'll answer any questions through the comments or through the author's notes at the beginning. I'm sure there will be some!

* * *

Hundreds of scurrying feet thundered across the ground, kicking up dirt and trampling each other in a desperate attempt to flee. Fearful squeaks and frantic chittering rose above the horde, and along with the smashing of shields and blades clashing, it created a cacophony that stirred even the tired old ears of the Grey Seer known as Gnawdoom.

He was small for his kind, but tall for his age. Ram-like horns protruded from his grey-furred scalp, curling around his ears and ending in a point on either side of his jaw. His warriors bore robes of white and red, but caring little for such matters as uniform, Gnawdoom sported a simple, tattered robe, the color of which was not unlike that of a rain cloud. Though he rarely used it anymore, the robe boasted a very large hood, large enough that it hung off of his shoulders. It drooped well past the poorly made belt made of coarse dockyard rope he had tied around his waist. A thick, worm-like tail was just visible at the point where his robes met the ground, flicking nervously -albeit rather slightly- as the battle swayed this way and that. Most of his clanrat warriors stood between four and five feet, and he was no different. He appeared just a bit smaller thanks to a minor hunch he had developed over the years, but he was no less respected, or more likely feared, by those Skaven who knew well enough to show fealty to those blessed ratme who had been born as Grey Seers.

Gnawdoom had more experience than almost all of his Clan, and as such he adopted the role as the clan's patriarch with an almost dutiful fervor, if such things can be said of the ratmen. Across the battlefield, Clawleaders tried to keep their warriors in line, but panic spread like wildfire amongst the ratmen. Gnawdoom gave what orders he could but in the end, he knew the battle was almost lost entirely. He chittered anxiously, thumbing a token of greenish-black stone in his paw-like hands. The Knights of Bretonnia had always been a thorn in his side, and these pale descendants of theirs carried on this tradition proudly, albeit inadvertently. Not that it mattered - they'd fall in time- but it annoyed him to no end that they continued to charge into his forces again and again, for every dead rat was one less obstacle between him and whatever they encountered in the Warp.

"Ratchitt, is your device rea-" His wiry, weathered voice was cut off by a minor explosion, just loud enough to draw his attention from the battlefield. He turned to see his minion, a Warlock Engineer, who by now was buried in soot and warp-forged metal. The twitching creature wheezed and coughed, shaking ash and carbon from his matted grey fur.

"Yes-yes, most masterful one, only a few-few more adjustments…" Ratchitt freed a slender paw from the mechanical mess atop his body and adjusted his goggles with it. A wicked green glow hung about them thanks to the sparks of warp lightning sputtering from the machine.

The old rat spoke again. "Well, be quick about it tinker-rat! The man-things crush our ranks by the second, and we cannot-" His command was interrupted as a young knight bellowed a battle cry and rushed at the pair, sword overhead. Initially Gnawdoom was confused. The Knight's presence would have meant that he had battered a path through the hordes of Skaven protecting the pair of sorcerers. A quick glance past the knight confirmed as much, as scattering clanrats gave way to Bretonnian steel.

" _For the lady!"_ The Bretonnian brought his sword down, but the Grey Seer had already stepped out of the way. Extending a wicked claw, the Grey Seer loosed a bolt of greenish black lightning at the knight, throwing the soldier backwards and onto the verdant grass of the Bretonnian countryside.

"You'll have to try harder than that, filth…" The knight spat as he rolled over onto his knees before using his sword to help him stand.

"And be sure, knave, I will not miss a second time!" The knight raised his sword again, preparing for a second charge, when a sickening, metallic pop erupted from the man's armor. The knight fell to his knees, and then forward onto the grass. A rusty, poorly maintained halberd, more the shape of an oversized cleaver than a proper halberd, had busted through the knight's armor. An oversized Skaven stood in the knight's place, wrenching the tool free from it's victim.

"The young ones are eager to die-die, yes?" The creature wore a placid expression, unusual among the warrior caste of the Skaven.

"Queek wishes to know-know the plan, Grey Seer. He grows impatient." The creature continued.

Suddenly, Ratchitt began to laugh maniacally. With a sickening lurch, a portal ripped open behind the crumbling Skaven battleline. Its otherworldly hue evoked memories in the Grey Seer of long nights illuminated by naught but the wicked green glow of warpstone.

"Yes-yes! The warp-gnawer works! Quick-quick, through the gnawhole!" The Warlock Engineer chittered in excitement, momentarily forgetting the steadily increasing panic that he had felt with each successful Bretonnian charge. Nearby Skaven had heard the Engineer's exclamation, and eagerly fled into the portal, completely abandoning all hopes of beating back the crusaders.

Gnawdoom frowned, then looked around at the retreating tide of vermin. His army had made his decision for him. Gnawdoom, and almost the entirety of Clan Corbin, scurried through the gnawhole, before letting the warp overtake them.


	2. Chapter 2 - Something Rotten in Caelin

"For the last time, Eric, we're lost! Now admit it, and give me the map already!" Eric turned on his horse to look at the cavalier addressing him, a man with poorly groomed facial hair and a uniform barely kept in regulation. In reality, Eric was sure they were quite lost. Despite that, he was somewhat annoyed by his partner's newfound "competence", when ordinarily he was the one who tended to get the pair in hot water. He decided to feign ignorance for a bit longer, even if it marred his otherwise well-maintained image, just to annoy his comrade.

"Honestly, Marcus, we're making great progress. In a few hours we should arrive to the next village. I'm sure our informant hasn't even rolled out of his bed for breakfast."

"Be that as it may, I don't want to keep the Lady waiting. She gave us a very simple mission, and I intend to impress."

Eric gave him no time to elaborate.

"Why, if that were true, you wouldn't have gotten eliminated in the first round of her tournament." Eric spoke with the air of a nobleman, though he hardly dressed like one.  
"Hey, you know as well as I do that Thomas had lowered his lance way too late. It caught me off guard."

"I suppose any good bandit would observe those rules better than he." Eric grinned. Unamused, Marcus turned to his left as he brought his horse to a trot.

"I really think we should take another look at that map. I swear, we're going the complete opposite direction. Gods forbid something should-"

Marcus was interrupted by a call for help, a call that turned into panicked crying and screaming. It echoed hollowly through the woods, stirring even some forest beasts and birds. The pair exchanged nervous glances before riding towards the screams. Though they were proud soldiers of the house of Caelin, though they had both done their share of bragging to those townsfolk they had caught the attention of on leave, both of the cavaliers secretly dreaded moments like this. They adamantly believed in protecting their people no matter the foe, but in their line of work, a quiet day was always better than a busy one.

Their worst fears hadn't quite been realized, but there was still certainly cause for alarm. In a hamlet just past the treeline of the wooded path they had been taking, several bandits had arrived and had certainly made their presence known. Two houses were already in flames by the time the cavaliers had arrived in the town centre, where some small, outlying bushes and market stalls were already ablaze. Small pockets of women and children darted to and fro, not sure where the danger could be coming from. The bandits didn't seem much better off. They looked panicked and dazed, out of breath as they brandished their weapons and cast lit torches into any dark place they could see. A couple of guards had attempted to intervene, as far as the cavaliers could tell, but there was little evidence that they had done much good at all.

"How many do you see, Marcus?"

"Eight. No, nine. One or two archers, just a couple of axes. I see a myrmidon or two… I can't tell for sure."

"Then, let's make quick work of these brigands. I'd wager there's more to this raid than we can tell."

One bandit had made his way to the pair, a wild look in his eyes, and he began to shout as he raised his axe to point at the horsemen.

"Oi, you lot, go an' tell your boys that you've got a situation 'ere! Way more'n you can handle by the looks of ye. I won't tell you a second time."

The cavaliers looked at each other in confusion.

"I said _now_." The bandit suddenly roared and rushed forward, spurring Marcus and Eric into action. They easily outmaneuvered the lone bandit but he still fought ferociously. Throughout the bout, he shouted out ramblings of little sense, reminding the pair over and over that they were outmatched and that they had horses and therefore stood the best chance of getting away. Marcus struck with brazen, reckless blows, while Eric showed a bit more finesse, and the combination of styles forced the bandit into a game of adaptation that he couldn't win. Before long, the bandit had fallen.

The other bandits moved in to attack, with an air of caution that wasn't quite common for bandits. The two cavaliers shrugged and then made their way into battle, taking the bandits in small groups so as to keep the battle contained.

Two immediately rushed Eric, but he had reared his horse to escape their blow, and on his way down, he struck one of them fatally. The other had an axe, and couldn't do much other than stay alive thanks to Eric's superior reach and angle from his sword. Conversely, Marcus had charged into an archer headfirst, lance held forward. The archer buckled under the blow, and when Marcus had slowed his horse, the bandit didn't get back up from the charge. A myrmidon, slender sword in hand, moved to challenge Marcus, but the cavalier held him at bay with the lance before delivering a shattering strike to the bandit's arm. He had began to call across the way to brag to Eric, when he heard a guttural roar that stopped him in his tracks. He had stumbled into the path of the bandit chief, by the looks of the man, who delivered his battlecry a second time before charging Marcus in complete disregard for strategy. Marcus hadn't been able to react in time, and the chief's axe crashed into his armor, nearly unhorsing him.

"Eric, I could use a hand!" He turned his horse on the spot and sped forward a few feet, away from the bandit, and while Eric rushed into the chief, he quickly drew a vulnerary from his satchel and downed it in one go. He turned to check on his partner, who had certainly wounded the chieftain, but was struggling now that he had lost the momentum of the charge. Suddenly confident, Marcus charged forward and slammed his lance into the bandit's torso.

The bandit howled in pain, allowing Eric to take advantage of the situation and slash his sword across the bandit's chest. His shouts of pain had stopped, and now he simply looked at his attackers with a look of shock in his eyes. He fell to his knees, muttering incoherently, as throughout the village the remaining bandits routed and fled.

"Hah! That'll teach you to attack harmless townsfolk! The knights of House Caelin have arrived to save our people!" Marcus laughed, as if forgetting that this very same bandit had nearly laid him low.

"A-attack them? Haha! You lot are so self-righteous… we wasn't trying to hurt them, boy. We was trying to save them… and your precious House Caelin… look through the town, you'll not find a one soul my boys have harmed. Not a one." The bandit coughed, before continuing. "Aye, the signal fire got a bit out of our control but it did its job plenty well. You're here, aren't you? Now do your damned job and defend this place."

The chieftain slumped forward and fell silent. For longer than the two would have liked, the only audible sound was that of burning wood and fleeing townspeople.

"What do you think he was talking about?" Marcus had lost his confidence entirely, and it had been replaced with a fear that he hadn't felt in years. The cavaliers had already doubled back to the castle of House Caelin, a feeling of dread hanging over them like some impatient bird of prey. Soldiers lined the walls of the keep, and noticing the change in the pair's behavior, seemed to watch the procession with the same sense of apprehension that so heavily weighed on them.

"I'm not sure, Marc. And honestly, I'm just going to give our report. It's something they should know, clearly. But it's not worth our stress. Our job is simply to direct our weapons where we are told."

"Yeah, but you can't just forget about what happened. Something is very wrong here. Since when do bandits not harm anyone in a raid? Nor did they pillage anything. I think even the villagers were confused… the only real damage was done by the fire, and they said that was accidental."

Eric stayed quiet. The questions the encounter had raised weighed on him like an anvil, but he knew his friend had come to depend on his conviction. If he showed his unease, it would unnerve his partner even more.

Upon their arrival, they refused food and drink and even rest, and asked to be taken to the guard captain immediately. Sensing the urgency, the guards accommodated him, and before long they were greeted by two knights, Paladins of Caelin, the same pair that had trained them.

"Ah, Marcus and Eric. I hope your journey hasn't taxed you too heavily. Why have you sent for us so soon after your return? You're not expected to debrief until tomorrow… you should rest while you can!"

The pair looked at each other nervously.

"Lord Kent, Lord Sain… we bring news of a... mysterious encounter." Eric began to recall everything that had happened, from the details of combat to the chieftain's cryptic last words, and by the time the story came to a close, even infallible Sain wore a frown.

"I think… you should tell the Lady all of this herself. You've done a great service today. Get some food, get some sleep, and report to us when you wake tomorrow." Kent kept a straight face, but as he concluded his statement, he gave a faint smile. Sain donned his familiar grin, and told the pair to lighten up, and not to stress about the encounter. Thanking their superiors, Marcus and Eric saluted, then turned about and excused themselves.

"Mark my words, Eric. Something is very wrong here." Marcus whispered as they trudged through the dark hallway leading to their barracks.  
"Consider them marked. I'd wager some coin on it, but I don't want to put you in even more debt." Eric smiled, knowing full well that Marcus couldn't see the gesture. It served to comfort himself, as he too felt that something was very wrong.


	3. Chapter 3 - Precipice

_In terrible hordes, they emerged from below, drowning Estalia in a tide of vermin and pestilence. The land of dancing blades. chosen of Myrmidia, was no more._

Rain had always made the Skaven a nervous bunch. It reminded the ratmen that there was no end to the sky above them, and being quite used to their finite burrows and tunnels, this made them nervous simply due to the sheer scale of that thought. Their burrows were safe and secure, but who among them could possibly know how far that sky goes! Only the most stupid and the most learned of the ratmen were fortunate enough not to give much credit to those nervous thoughts.

Ratchitt wiped the rain from his goggles. He could barely see the little arrow on the meter he had built, as it flicked and twitched wildly in different directions.

"What does that thing do, exactly?" Ratchitt looked up from his crouched position to see Gnawdoom, a few feet away, looking at the device in abject curiousity. '

"Yes-yes, most curious and ever-knowing one. The warp-metometer… or was it warp-meter…ah, it find-seeks the best-best places for gnawholes...places where the Warp flows and leaks. Great-strong places of warp energy, and that will let us gnaw-gnaw a new hole. We can get home-home this way, as well as to the Mortal Realms… and beyond, great-mighty one."

"And… what does it say, Ratchitt?" Gnawdoom's visage hadn't changed.

"Ah…" Ratchitt wasn't sure how to read his own meters, but it kept flicking to the left more than the other directions, and he liked the direction left more than the others, so he figured it had to be working right.  
"Our original heading is correct, mighty one."

"Our original heading is leading us straight through a battlefield, tinker-rat. I am not Queek, nor am I Skreet, nor even humble Kreeshin. I do not want-seek to send my clan into battle without need-need." Ratchitt followed the gaze of the Grey Seer to the unfolding battle below them.

Humans, known to the Skaven colloquially as "man-things", had met each other in pitched battle in the valley below them. Hilltop forts fired volleys of arrows into the advancing army, led by a dark-haired man with what looked to be a sizable tattoo on his bare arm. A few bolts of fire launched from either side, indicating to the Skaven that there were sorcerers in the melee as well. All things considered, it was risky to move forward at the present time.

"We'll wait it out, yes? Wait until the man-things have killed each other, then move across as fast-quick as we can." Gnawdoom looked over the battlefield, and spoke with a tone that conveyed his wisdom better than Ratchitt could have put into words.

"Ah… so… Queek didn't tell you, not yet?" Ratchitt asked nervously.

Fearing the worst, Gnawdoom turned to Ratchitt with a start.

"Tell me what?"

Queek Headtaker leapt forward as the humans fled in fear. He was too fast for them, he realized, as he buried his beak-like maul into the back of one and pounced on the other with his sword. These humans were tougher than what he was used to, but still somehow lacked guts. He wasn't sure if he liked them better scared or stern, but either way, he had a fight, and that was really all he cared about.

Clanrats scurried about next to him, as close as they were willing to get at least, as not even his own forces were spared from his seemingly random episodes of rage. His Stormvermin, warrior elite of the Skaven race, marched in perfect lockstep, not matching Queek's speed, but certainly beating the pace of the much less enthusiastic clanrats.

Archers fired down into the mass of bodies, and with each arrow, more clanrats fell and lost to the seething mass of vermin. Clanrats were afforded the most basic, barely maintained armor they could scrounge, and ultimately it did little for protection as they were pelted by arrows.

The next group of human soldiers stepped forward within several meters of the Skaven forces.

"For General Mustafa! For Ple-" One had attempted to rally his brethren, but before he could react, Queek was on him. Queek slammed his armored body into the man, throwing him to the floor, and as he taunted the soldier, Stormvermin lowered their halberds and rushed into the humans trying to form a defensive stance.

"Is this General strong-mighty?" Queek bared his fangs at the soldier. Terrified, the hapless man could just barely stammer a response. He took a deep breath, and then as firmly as he could, he said "General Mustafa will stop you, creature. He won't let you hurt anyone else."

"Hah! No one stops Queek! I can hurt you, yes-yes? If he comes, Queek will hurt him too. No one stops Queek. Queek defied death itself. Now, no more advice - you are not smart-wise enough to keep me counsel. Queek not take you with him."

The soldier's was confused, until he let his eyes gaze past Queek to see something looming over them. Fixed on the warrior's bold, red armor, was a wooden trophy rack, weathered and worn from battle and age. Adorned on its wheel-like spokes were the mementos he had taken from warriors across his years of warfare… Several skulls, taken from the various races that the Skaven warred against, part of a skeleton from a rival Skaven warlord, and other odds and ends he had claimed.

"Now, be good and die-die!" Queek drove the maul downwards, and the soldier never got a chance to scream.

Plegian mages tried to keep the tide at bay, hurling bolts of fire and thunder into the hordes. Queek ignored such things. He only cared as long as there were enemies in front of him, and he found no shortage. One hapless soldier tried to slam his spear into Queek in an attempt to stun him, but a jolt of green lightning burst from the little green gem centered on Queek's armor and threw the soldier to the ground. The Headtaker turned and smiled a nasty little smile.

"Warp-shard armor, man-thing! Good-strong for your tiny little blows!" Queek dove on top of his attacker, trophy rack rattling and chain mail rustling against his armor.

While Queek was interested in winning the battle by brute force, a second Warlord had been attempting to keep the battle won from the rear. Warlord Verminkin didn't have the notoriety of Queek, nor was he as strong, but he had learned much from watching where Skaven like Queek failed, and where those like Gnawdoom succeeded.

When Queek failed, it was because of his pride. He picked many fights he couldn't win, but lieutenants and comrades constantly saved his tail despite the Skaven race's tendency to betray one another. Famously, Queek had fought the High King of the Dwarfs only to have his little skull bashed in, ending the Headtaker's prominence for what felt like forever.  
Gnawdoom was a subtler sort. He planned meticulously, planned for every scheme and betrayal he could think of and some he couldn't, tried to shore up his army's weaknesses (of which there were many) and had he been born to any other race, he would probably be much more successful. His underlings failed him regularly, or outright sabotaged him in hopeless power bids. In the end, Gnawdoom was doomed to fail for no other reason than the inherent unreliability of the Skaven.

Warlord Skreet Verminkin planned to fall in the happy medium. He withdrew his halberd from the unfortunate archer he had come across as he stalked the high ground of the valley. Two shapes came into the blurring vision of the archer, stepping into view behind Verminkin. One was similarly armored, in red robes and with a heavy, rusting halberd, and the other was like a shadow in itself, it's glaring red eyes the only discernible shape in the dark mass.

"Piip, Kreeshin… follow this ridge and make-make certain that Queek doesn't get himself killed." His voice lacked the utter joy that was found in Queek's during battle. The entire clan could have snuck around the battlefield, but thanks to Queek, it had become a mad dash, fighting an army that had already been beaten. Verminkin looked as far as he could past the valley. At the height of it, where the three channels merged into one, a furious battle was unfolding between an armored knight, likely the commander of the defending army, and a royally dressed man leading the other. The knight wasn't winning. Knowing Queek, he'd charge them as soon as they were visible, exposing the entire Clan. Skreet wouldn't stand for it. His job was difficult enough already.

Queek was furious. It had been almost an hour, but he found that his rage still had yet to subside. The battle had ended, and those that hadn't surrendered to the attacking army had routed from the Skaven. But none of that mattered to him. One name had been repeated amongst the defenders - Mustafa. Queek had been psyching himself up to face him, for the man's soldiers spoke highly of the man as a warrior. And now, it had been robbed from him by the princeling that Verminkin had seen dueling the General. He stood over the mustached body of the General. It was a clean kill, no excess wounds or anything of the sort, a sign of the honorable battle that had taken place.

But Queek wasn't one for honor.

As Queek furiously drove his maul into the thickest parts of Mustafa's armor repeatedly, Gnawdoom and Skreet directed their Clan into the glowing, sickening Gnawhole opened by Ratchitt's machine.

"How do we know-see where this thing will take us, Ratchitt?" Gnawdoom was at the limit of his already exhausted patience.

"Ah… we don't, most revered one. I can influence the machine, but it is still only a small-tiny chance. As long as-" Ratchitt was interrupted by Queek, who stomped forward and slammed his maul into the machine. Ratchitt squeaked as his wondrous device sputtered with the blow, the bronze of the thing punctured by Queek's maul.

"Bah! All this nonsense, tinker-rat! Queek wastes his time here! Queek could seize-take his revenge on the man-thing prince! Queek could win and end-end this whole quest! Tinker-rats are useless, usele-"

"The princeling scurry-fled into the portal, Queek. Take your clawpack and chase him." Gnawdoom's tone was neutral and stern.

"No one tell Queek what to do, grey fur! I will take my clawpack and chase-seek, because I want to, not you, old-thing!" With a huff, Queek turned on his footpaw and stormed off to gather his warriors.

"Will it still work, Ratchitt?"

Ratchitt looked up, his eyes watering underneath his goggles. He was holding and stroking his machine as if it were a newborn baby.

"Yes-yes, it's a good-good machine, it obeys and listens… Poor machine, good machine…" Ratchitt was still in shock. "Take longer, but still-still work. Stay together, we should."

Gnawdoom left Ratchitt to grieve while he sent his Clan in immediately after Queek. As Verminkin passed by him, the Grey Seer whispered.

"Keep a close eye on Queek. We need him if we are to stand a chance against the Storm-things."

"Yes-yes, most careful and prepared Grey Seer." Skreet carried on, with his two clawpacks in tow.

A new voice spoke, this one sounding as if spoken by a snake.

"The sssurvivors say-squeak that thisss was a battle between a place called Plegia and one called Ylissse. The prince-thing they spoke of earlier was the victor." The assassin paused, then asked "Our orderssss, most masterful of masters?"

"You follow closely behind. Have Kreeshin wait to make sure the entire clan makes it through the gnawhole. Take the Plague Priest and his little procession. Ratchitt and I will be following shortly."

Once more, Clan Corbin scurried through the gnawhole, some tired, some eager, but most of them anxious, and one by one they were overtaken by the warp.


	4. Chapter 4 - Vermintide

"So what do you two think it is?"

Wil, one of the esteemed officers of Caelin, had approached Eric and Marcus. Though an archer by trade, Wil had become one of the most vital parts of the training cadre within House Caelin - he had made an appearance or two during the cavaliers' training cycle almost two years prior.

Eric began to speak, but Marcus had cut already cut him off.

"We're not sure, sir. My money is on a cult. Eric here thinks it's some ruse on the part of the bandits." Marcus clutched his lance tightly. He was normally quite brazen, but the experience had definitely rattled him.

"Or at the very least, sir, it's more than meets the eye." Eric clarified his stance.

Wil looked out over the field they had assembled on. Spears and banners rose above the heads of the soldiers in formation, lightly fluttering in the wind. Under Kent's command, a force had been dispatched to investigate whatever had driven the bandits from their hideout. It was called a patrol, but in truth it was almost an entire company of soldiers.

Across the field, on a hill shrouded by foliage was the mouth of a cave - a largely unremarkable thing that would have been overlooked if it wasn't for the smoldering remains of a campfire just outside of the cave.

Wil began to speak when Kent, bedecked in his armor and livery, rode up and addressed the pair of soldiers - the look of concern on his face was enough to stop Wil from speaking another word.

"Marcus, Eric, come with me. We have a problem."

Kent had sent a squad of sentries into the cave but had failed to emerge despite having a cleric in the party, capable of Rescuing the scouts back to safety. The nature of the mission was concerning enough as it was - Kent would take no risks.

"What's the plan then, sir?" Eric looked into the cave, wondering how deep it really went. The cave was pitch black, but Eric could have sworn there was an eerie glow - a green tint, so faint that he thought it was a trick of the light… or lack thereof.

Kent was firm, and quick to answer.

"We're heading inside. Following us are two more squads - and if we don't emerge within the hour, we send a runner to alert Sain's men. Past that, well… it isn't really our concern. "

Marcus and Eric exchanged nervous glances, but clenched their weapons and shook aside the unease that had set in. Following Kent's lead, they dismounted and stood at the mouth of the cave.

"We're knights - what have we to fear?" Marcus blurted out. He thought he had kept it to himself, when he heard Kent mutter in reply.

"I fear we'll find out."

The cave was pitch black for quite some time, until finally the narrow path they had entered opened into a large room. Above them, there was a gap in the rocks that let in just a sliver of daylight. The beam of light allowed them to make out the finer details within the room - a storage crate here, a weapon rack there. An overturned lantern in the corner of the room was presumably how the bandits were able to see in the cave. There were dark figures on the floor, perhaps some sort of cargo netting or cache of some kind. Dark stains were also visible on the dirt, but only after their eyes had adjusted did the knights really understand.

There was blood everywhere - whatever battle had taken place here was vicious. The dark masses on the floor were bodies, bandits that had embraced the foe zealously - at least, for a time. However, amidst the human bodies was the shattered foe. As Eric edged closer he made out a wormlike tail and ragged, unkempt armor.

"It's a... rat..."

He drew his sword and slowly drove the blade at the creature's fur when it sprung to life, lashing out with a concealed blade and squeaking in a desperate attempt to drive Eric back.

"Bah! Back-back, man-thing! Ruin my-my plan! Skree no fight-fight, only pretend! Take pity on poor-poor Skree!" Even as the thing pleaded for its life, it swung its blade around wildly. Eric tried to disarm the ratman by catching his arm, but the thing was faster than he expected. It sidestepped and lowered itself and slammed its armored body into the Eric's legs. Thankfully, he had strengthened his stance, and the creature meekly bounced off of his armor. It squeaked once again, before turning tail and sprinting deeper into the cave. Eric was about to give chase when a hand grasped his shoulder and restrained him.

"Wait, Eric - listen!"

Eric was about to object when he heard something from deeper within. Footsteps, scores of them, echoed from the cave where the rat had scurried and were now headed this way. Without further delay, the trio immediately turned about and rushed out of the cave.

The daylight blinded them for a moment, but it was clear that the next wave of troops from Caelin was already making its way to the cave. They would have to intercept them before they walked into a trap. The mounted soldiers could escape with ease, but the infantry would struggle to evade their pursuers, especially if caught by surprise. Whether the day ended in pitched battle or calculated retreat, the knights of Caelin had a duty, and they would see to it. However, as they rushed away on horseback, Eric turned to see the the creature they had encountered clutched by the neck by something much taller, with skulls hanging ominously over them.

"Pitiful Skree, tiny Skree, what have you delivered to mighty Queek?" Queek had the tiny clanrat in his fist, his claws digging into Skree's neck and drawing blood. Skree struggled to talk, but managed to stammer out what it hoped was a valid response.

"Y-yes, most terrifying and bone-shattering Warlord...I bring you strong-mighty foes that you have missed since there are no dwarf-things in thi-" Skree had begun to talk his way out of the situation, but Queek was something of a minefield when it came to conversation.

"Speak not of the dwarf-things!" Queek hefted Skree into the air and threw him at the ground before placing a footpaw on the clanrat's chest.

"Dwarf-Gouger hungers, Skree. Rouse your-your clawpack. Today, the Headtaker goes to war."

The sun was bright enough that the faces of the unknown enemy were completely visible. Rodent-like, almost man-sized twitching masses had formed at the other side of the plain. They had surged out of the mouth of the cave, but at the head of them was the large thing the knights had seen. Kent would lead them today, a veteran of the wars before, but still the youngblood cavaliers Eric and Marcus were quite nervous. A pitched battle at this level was brand new to them - they were quite used to only dealing with only half-hearted bandit raids at the most. It was clear that today would be a very different kind of war.

Initially, both sides were still as stone. Neither side trudged forward even an inch. The leader of the ratmen furiously paced back and forth as if impatient. It kept eyeing all three of the knights that had scouted the cave, as if marking its target.

Suddenly, a rumbling could be heard. It was a deep, monstrous sound, and at the other side of the plain, hulking monsters were galloping towards the assembled force. Kent ordered one rank of soldiers to engage it in melee, but also sent Wil with a few archers to weaken the foe before impact. Eric tried his best to get a better look at the monsters, but aside from the puny, rat-sized head and a few odd bits of machinery and weaponry horribly stitched onto them, he couldn't see any details.

The impact was an awful sight. The things had very nearly dove into the soldiers that had charged, and their spears were visibly snapped or tossed aside. Caelin's men were of sterner stuff than most, and so redoubled their efforts. Despite the massive casualties they suffered, the first thing to fall came quickly, and before another wave could be dispatched, the creatures began to flee from the stalwart defenders.

A mighty cheer erupted from the men of Caelin, but it was cut short when the rhythmic, haunting tone of a bell echoed across the field. With each toll, the ratmen at the other side became frenzied and even more twitchy. They pawed at their shields and necks, chittering and squeaking and almost screeching in their fervour. The bell continued to sound a few more times, before silence took an eerie, solemn place on the battlefield. The skies had visibly darkened; grey clouds had come to rest overhead, and in the next few seconds, battle was joined.

The Skaven surged forth like a tide, and Kent ordered volleys of spell and arrow be loosed onto the horde. Fireball plucked away the warrior rats here and there, the arrows buried themselves into the waves of vermin like pebbles tossed into the sea, but despite the fact that nearly every attack claimed a verminous victim, it did little to stop the incoming attack. Now, Eric could see them in greater detail - the centre of the army were simple warrior rats, bearing crude blades and cruder shields, whipped into a frenzy by the horrid tolling of the bell. At the flanks, robe-clad ratmen skirted to and fro, with blades that had a sickly green glow to them, and the rats themselves were quite pallid and ill-looking. Boils and cysts were plainly visible on these ones, and they seemed even more rabid than the warrior rats.

The monsters had returned, only this time emboldened by the presence of their allies, and wrought havoc on the right-most flank of the Caelin line. Horrible streaks of blackish green tore into Kent's forces, and following the streaks to the source revealed three, large pavises with some sort of weapon laid over the top at the cave mouth. In each team, one rat held the pavise in place, and the other fired the weapon. With terrible pops and cracks, the weapon teams whittled the forces of men, slowly, but quite surely.

Finally, the order came down - Eric and Marcus joined other Cavaliers in a charge on the right flank of the warrior rats. As they neared the forces, the weapon teams near the cave shifted fire and aimed at the Cavaliers. The man directly ahead of the pair was unhorsed as his mount was plugged by whatever projectile the things fired. Eric never got a chance to look, but the hapless cavalier was then set upon by the plague rats he had seen before, who took to tearing into the man with foetid blades.

The charge connected with most of the Cavaliers intact - lances smashed into shields and swords slashed into exposed fur and flesh. The clanrats were much less enthused by the idea of damage being inflicted on them, and as one began to squeak and flee. Their retreat was much faster than their charge - Eric struggled to keep up with them despite being mounted.

One rat became visible to the pair that was not before, this one pallid and sickly like the plague rats from before. It was hunched over, its teeth discolored and jutting out at an odd angle, and horrid spines pointed every which way on the creatures back. In one twisted hand it held a small handheld bell, unlikely to be the source of the pealing earlier, and in the other it wielded a staff tipped with a greenish-black stone. Eric looked to Marcus who was now fending off clanrats with the rest of their allies, twisting and slashing with his mount crashing its hooves onto the meek creatures below. The cavalier knew that with Marcus otherwise occupied, he would have to be the one to stop this solitary rat from doing whatever it had schemed.

With a yell, he levelled his lance and began to charge. The thing stopped in its tracks, and began to point its sickly claw at the ground. With a horrid chittering, and unearthly phrases, it raised its claw sharply and a sickening sound came from the earth itself. Initially, Eric didn't notice anything different, so doubled down on his charge, but soon his horse struggled and whined. He looked down over the saddle to see that swarms of rats had torn through the earth of the plain, and scrambled up his horse frantically like a sea attempting to drown its occupants. The horse lost its balance as rats forced their way under and onto it, and Eric was unhorsed.

The rat swarms continued on in a singular path, devouring all in their wake, to include unlucky Skaven who hadn't seen them coming. The wizard chittered in self-satisfaction. Eric was quickly surrounded by Skaven, but the sorcerous one was suddenly struck by a lance. The cavalier looked up expecting to see Marcus, but it was Kent himself who had intervened. The creature was thrown onto its flank, and where it had stood Eric could see the grass rotting and withering away. Kent drew his sword and slashed at the creature who now chittered in fear - it flicked its tail in Kent's direction and scurried away. Eric turned to see the Caelin infantry advancing.

Human weapons ripped into the Skaven line, shattering their crude shields and armor. Arrows crashed like waves into the Skaven line, and as before, it seemed most arrows were claiming victims. The few sorcerers Caelin had brought to bear were being used extensively, with fire and thunder being loosed into the furred masses with little restraint. Kent led his men forward with zeal and discipline, and it seemed like perhaps they would rout these creatures in time for Sain to bring reinforcements.

Just as a spark of hope was lit in Eric's heart, screams began to soar from the men marching forward. To the right of Eric, where the lines first met, Caelin troops were wavering, screaming, and routing. All Eric could see above their heads was a skull mounted on some sort of wooden spoke, swaying this way and that like a raft on perilous seas. Finally, the line gave way and broke. What stood before the Cavalier was the leader they had so narrowly avoided in the cave. In one hand, it held a maul, with a beak like point. In the other, a curved sword with some sort of runes engraved into it glowed with energy. Above it, fastened onto its armor, were what looked to be the wooden spokes of a wheel. At the end of each point, the monster had fixed skulls onto it, of previous victims no doubt. It grinned a ferocious little grin, and stepped forward.

Queek Headtaker had awaited battle for so long. And for what, he wasn't quite sure. The skulls did their part to slow him - Krug and Sleek Sharpwit in particular were adamant that battle not be joined until the Grey Seer arrived. Of course, the green-thing skull was the only one in agreement.

 _Come on rattie, get ta krumpin'! Bash their little skullz in, take their teef!_

"Yes-yes, only the green-thing thinks with his head-head."

 _Queek is a fool-fool! You have doomed yourself - you lack even the small-tiny brains of the beasts of Clan Moulder!_ Queek growled. Sharpwit annoyed him to no end, in life and in death.

 _Aye, I'm with the rakki on this one. You might have picked a fight you can't win, and this manling in front of you might just be the herald of the end._

Krug was always honest, even if Queek didn't see it that way.

"Bah! Stay quiet, dead-things. Queek has work to do."

Queek sharpened his gaze to the man in front of him, who had a look of both fear and confusion on his face. Whatever the case, the human raised a lance in challenge.

Queek smiled, and took another step forward. He was about to charge when another young man rode into view - and immediately charged Queek. Queek turned with a snarl. As the knight leaned into the charge, Queek leapt into the air and slammed into the knight, unhorsing him and throwing him into his back.

"Marcus!"

The shout had come from from the other human, but Queek cared not. Marcus wiped the sweat and grime from his face, shouted something Queek didn't care to listen to, and charged on foot. The blow came from overhead, and Queek dashed forward and drove his sword into the armor of the human. It cut cleanly, with only a metallic sliding sound as evidence that the sword had punctured the armor. Marcus gasped, but Queek had already withdrawn the blade and slammed Dwarf-Gouger into Marcus's side.

Marcus, with a rush of adrenaline, grabbed his sword and slammed it across Queek's face. Despite not being an effective use of the weapon, he had drawn blood. Queek licked the small cut, and then roared and pounced. This time, the man was exhausted. Queek let loose a flurry of attacks. First was his blade, which slashed into Marcus's arm, then was Dwarf-Gouger, which slammed into Marcus's shoulder. Queek used the leverage to lift up the knight and crash him onto the ground, eliciting cries of pain from the knight. With a grin, Queek lowered his face to Marcus's, and sneered.

"Cave-dwelling man-things died better than you-you, knight-thing."

Marcus had one final moment of realization before Queek drove Dwarf-Gouger into Marcus's helmet, with a stomach wrenching crunch. He withdrew the maul and then stepped towards Eric once again. Now, another knight stood in front of him.

"Eric. Take what's left and retreat to Sain's position. He must know what happened here." Kent maintained eye contact with the warlord standing before him.

"Lord Kent - Lord Kent, you can't be serious!" Eric looked around. The sorcerer rat from before had found a small boulder from which he unleashed his horrid spells. Bile erupted from the earth, decimating entire ranks of soldiers. Armor was rusted and ruined at a click of its claws.

"I'm afraid I won't be there for your promotion, Eric. But this is a grave matter. Ride back to Sain. Then ride back to Castle Caelin. Lady Lyndis mut be informed." Eric urged his horse forward a single step.

"But Marcus -"

"Marcus did what was best for the Lady and for Caelin. I urge you do the same by following my orders. Only my retinue will remain here. The rest will retreat with you."

Eric took one last look around, before saying his final goodbyes to his lord commander and his closest friend. The army of Caelin was slowly being forced back, and so with the ordered retreat, gave way and routed from the battlefield. A circle of loyal troops stayed behind with Lord Kent, who then addressed the Headtaker.

"May I ask one question of you, from one general to another?"

Queek paused. Now his forces surrounded this remaining group. Plague monks frothed at the mouths, and clanrats chittered, their bravery bolstered by the odds. Behind Queek, marching in perfect lockstep, were his prized Stormvermin, armored Skaven selected from the best warrior stock available.

"Fine-fine. But be quick-quick. Queek wishes to see why your men will die-die for you."

Kent was unfazed.

"Why have you come to our land and made war upon us?"

Queek smiled.

"Because man-thing, I am Queek Headtaker. I am true warlord of the City of Pillars. I am favored of Clan Mors and now-now of Clan Corbin. I have defied death itself, and now I gnaw-chew through time and space to find-find foes like you."

The only audible sounds were the panting, savage breaths of the ratmen and the solemn, resigned final words of the humans.

Kent called to mind one last, peaceful memory. His eyes closed and a faint smile came to his lips.

"Lady Lyndis… travel safely."

The smile faded and was replaced by defiance.

"Then, Lord Headtaker… let us begin."

The Stormvermin charged into the circle of defenders, followed by the rest of the horde. Each defender's life was traded for at least ten of the ratmen, but this was a ratio they were quite used to.

Queek was preparing to charge Kent, but Kent had been faster. His lance slammed squarely into Queek's chest, nearly snapping with the force. Before Kent could turn and see if it left an impact, a jolt of energy shot up the lance and into his arm. He only barely managed to stay atop his horse. He turned to see Queek, who was quite satisfied.

"Haha! Try again, man-thing!" Queek whipped around and exposed his chest, arms held wide. Kent turned his horse around and prepared another charge, but Queek had already predicted this. He leapt at the general's horse, and drove both his sword and Dwarf-Gouger into the animal, bringing it down and throwing Kent onto the floor.

Kent rolled when he hit the ground, allowing him to recover and strike the warlord. The lance managed to slip into a crease in Queek's armor, and managed to inflict a wound on the Headtaker. Queek growled in response, and he leapt backward.

"Better than most-most of your kind here, man-thing. Still nothing compared to me-me!" Queek brought his sword across, in a wide slash, but it was easily parried by Kent. The knight prepared to counter-attack when Dwarf-Gouger hooked around his boots and brought him to the ground. Queek leapt on top of him and slammed the maul into Kent's chest, puncturing his armor and drawing a cry of pain from him. He proceeded to slash now with his sword, but Kent kneed the creature and used the momentum to turn and throw the warlord off of him.

Kent lunged forward, and just as Queek moved to parry, Keint ducked to the side and attacked the now exposed Headtaker. The lance struck Queek's face, but Queek pushed past the attack and pounced onto the knight. The weight of his armor and body stunned Kent, and Queek used the momentum to swing around behind Kent. Once his footpaws were planted, he drove Dwarf-Gouger into Kent's back. Kent roared in pain, but was undeterred. He took his lance in both hands, and turned and thrust the weapon upwards.

It struck truly - the lance ripped into Queek's jaw, failing to kill him but certainly wounding him even more. Queek, now beside himself with range, begin to savage the knight with every weapon he had available, to include tooth and claw. Kent had used his last burst of energy to wound the Headtaker, and was now helpless as he was torn into. Kent began to hack and sputter and gasp. Now the Headtaker stood over him.

"You have nothing else to say, man-thing. So boring. Stay here with your dead-thing friends. Queek move on to… Lyndis, was it? Yes-yes. Hopefully he fight-fights better than you, dead-thing."

Kent thought of using the last of his energy to correct the Headtaker, but the warlord didn't give him a chance. Queek brought Dwarf-Gouger crashing down onto the knight's skull, before moving on to the last remaining defenders.

Kent fell onto his back, fading away. The last thing he saw was the last desperate swings of his men as the horde fell unto them with the ferocity of cornered rats.


	5. Chapter 5 - The Restless Dead

_We have a tale about the ratmen, in my country. A nobleman made a deal with one of them, the shadowy kind, wanting a rival and his entire house wiped off the map. True to their word, the family was wiped away as if they had never existed - only a strip of land and a castle remained for the nobleman to take for himself. He decided to double-cross them, kept their payment to hire mercenaries to keep them away. Only thing is, by morning all of the mercenaries were dead and the nobleman's entire estate burned to the ground. Way I see it? The ratmen kept their word. Just don't double-cross them, because they're definitely better at it than you._

 _\- Bohemond de Vert-Glace, Bretonnian Smuggler, ca. 2517 IC_

Celica closed the tome with an air of frustration. She hadn't been able to focus all morning - though, truth be told, she had lost focus for weeks now. Following her coronation, the reality of everything finally set in. Overwhelmed, overburdened, fatigued, afraid… were all accurate enough terms to describe her. The end of her journey was in sight, but between her concern for her friends and for her people, she felt such a hole in her life that she felt thoroughly drained. It wasn't as if something was missing from her life, no, she felt that something had been ripped out of her entirely, replaced by nothing but solemn duty.

And do her duty, she would. She sighed and looked over at her comrades in arms. Boey and Mae were slumped against each other on the tavern wall. Celica recalled their last words before falling asleep, and smiled. They had been arguing over who was leaning on who, but it was obvious that they were quite content to rest on each other.

Saber was fast asleep on a table, a washcloth slumped over his face and his arms and legs dangling over the edge. His snore was loud enough to hear, but not quite at a volume that could wake the others. Everyone else had been given private rooms in the tavern, at Celica's expense. She offered to stay in the common room purely out of concern that there wouldn't be enough space otherwise. Mae and Boey stayed with the priestess out of concern and their sense of duty, while Saber was more accustomed to the common room...and available ale tap.

Celica was the first awake, which wasn't surprising even if it wasn't common. Sleep had become increasingly difficult, and her fear that something terrible was right around the corner ate at her without reprieve. After mulling about for a few seconds, she decided that fresh air would at least renew her mental state so she could return to her studies with newfound energy.

She thought briefly on waking up someone to let them know, but she figured they would worry and insist that she be accompanied, which defeated the purpose. A few seconds was all she thought she needed.

She came to regret her decision. She had gotten lost almost immediately, and before long had left the small town in its entirety. The countryside was laden with large boulders and verdant hills, with a light morning mist rolling over them. The sight brought her some measure of internal peace, so against her better instincts she decided to explore just a little bit longer before returning to the tavern. She chastised herself internally, but it had been so long since she had a true moment of peace that she couldn't bring herself to abandon it so readily.

She walked up the largest hill, the crest of which was guarded by larger boulders. Once she reached the top, she smiled, now able to take in even more scenery. Before her, the land flattened out and led up to the mountains. The grass ebbed with the wind, and within the sea of green she really felt that all was well. Some flowers jutted out at odd angles, and birds pecked at each other in vies for dominance, but this all made her feel quite comfortable.

However she was afraid to let herself become vulnerable, so dulled her moment a bit by keeping in the back of her mind the notion that this could all come crashing down at any moment, especially should she fail in her quest. And it wouldn't be long before she proved herself right.

The sounds of weapons clashing further into the mountains drew her attention just as she turned to leave. She initially was quite hesitant about investigating, as she might endanger her entire party if she stumbled onto something she couldn't handle, but she also thoroughly struggled with the idea that someone could need help and she could very well walk away and condemn them.

So, she began to set off in the direction of the struggle. It didn't take long to find.

Terrors.

Lots of them.

Some were quite daunting, unholy things that she was sure were quite powerful. At the head of them was a Tomb Lord, a type of wight she had once read about in her youth. To see one in person was quite shocking, and had there been nothing of note, she would have likely focused on it solely.

But curiously enough, at the center of the melee, were creatures she had never seen before. They bore uniforms - scrappy things, and generally not matching robes or armor, but uniforms nonetheless - of white and red. They were about man-sized, though some were shorter, and their rodent-like features were armored and their fur various shades of dark brown and black. Less than 10 were actively fighting, beating back the terrors with snarls on their snouts and rusty halberds. One was at their head, slightly larger than the rest, and he was silently crushing creature after creature that attacked the line.

Celica was quite unsure what to make of the scene until she saw something that rooted her firmly to one side of the skirmish. Behind the footpaws of the warrior ratmen was an old one - an ancient thing really, with grey fur and wiry whiskers. It was doubled over, one paw on its heaving stomach and the other keeping it upright. It was injured. Terrors were hardly reasonable negotiators, and she did see a helpless, injured soul that she could help fight back. She drew her sword and readied herself for battle.

The first terror fell easily - it had been occupied moving into melee range with the ratmen. The next, while alert, was quickly run through with her blade. One turned and swung at her, but she sidestepped it and then let loose with a blast of fire. Two more terrors turned her way, and she realized she couldn't avoid both attacks. She parried one, but closed her eyes and tensed as a terror's ancient blade swung through the air towards her.

The blow never came, but in its place she heard an otherworldly crack and could smell the odor of singed cloth and bone. She opened her eyes to see the old wizard pointing a wiry claw towards her. Sparks were weakly sputtering from it, and it was clear by the shattered corpse in front of her that he had intervened.

She turned to give her thanks when the terrors charged a second time, this time mortally wounding at least two of the verminous defenders and routing all but the old rat and the large one defending him.

She ran to his side, narrowly avoiding a wayward blow here and there, as the warrior rat drew their attention, and noticed that both of the ratmen visibly tensed as if worried she too was a threat. The old sorcerer attempted to force himself to his feet as she neared but fell once more, completely fatigued.

"Ah, is this my end, Kreeshin? Slain by a wayward traveller while feral dead-things pester and annoy us? Tch, words I have for you, man-thing, before you send me on." The rat's expression was, as far as Celica could tell, peaceful. It had horns that curled down to his cheeks, not unlike a ram's. His fur was grey, disheveled from age but well-maintained otherwise, and his robes were tattered and as worn as he was. He curled a claw and chittered, preparing a second spell as the rat identified as Kreeshin buried his halberd in yet another terror, this one a Tomb Lord. He let out a horrid chant and a significant number of rats burst forth from the ground, scurrying towards the undead horde. They carried away and even gnawed to dust some of the terrors before dispersing and fleeing from the battlefield, slipping into every hiding place they could find.

Gnawdoom prepared to use every bit of leverage he could, even if some of it was manufactured. The thought of being slain in some unknown land by unknown foes (worst of all, the wretched claws of the undead, a group he quite despised) was genuinely insulting to him, so in reality he would have probably bargained with a beggar at that point.

Much to Gnawdoom's later relief, Celica was much more than a simple passerby.

"I'm...sorry, I don't understand. I came here to help." Celica was genuine in intent, but the Grey Seer had been fooled by lesser folk, and so he continued his negotiations.

"Yes-yes, help. Help at the cost of a few crowns and a favor, or perhaps a rival merchant forced out of business, or… what do you do? Bah, it doesn't matter, I can help you if you help me-me." Gnawdoom grimaced as his claws brushed the wound that the undead had inflicted. He seriously considered that he might even have to let his clan mate Greel try to tend to the laceration, but as he thought upon the horrid experiments the Master Moulder had conducted, he figured he should just take his chances bleeding out.

Celica watched as blood seeped out of the Skaven.  
"Oh, here let me help you." She sat resting on her calves, and before Gnawdoom could object, she drew a vulnerary and forced its use. Gnawdoom sputtered and coughed, but he realized that doing so no longer caused immense pain as it had before. He looked to his wound to see that it had stopped bleeding (even though it was still an open wound) and turned back to Celica. She had a position of power over him now, in the negotiation. He couldn't allow that - he had so little to give.

"Wise of you to do that, yes, now I am prepared to bring ruin to any who oppose me... _any_ who oppose me." He repeated himself placing great emphasis, to remind Celica that he could destroy her if necessary, but she seemed oblivious, and this frustrated him even more.

"Of course, it's the least I can do." The moment she finished her reply, the sound of a halberd punching through ancient armor startled her and she turned to see the guilty party. The black rat had defeated the last of the horrors, aside from a few stragglers that began to crumble once the Tomb Lord had been destroyed.

"Now, man-thing, what is your price? Just some gold, or do you have a more creative agreement for us to come to?" Gnawdoom began to groom his fur, or at least as much as he could.

Celica laughed a little and smiled.

"No price - just be careful. Will you be able to find your friends? If not I can help you look for them." She extended a hand to Gnawdoom, which both ratmen looked at in shock.

"Ah… I see… is this part of your scheme? Set the dead-things upon us to play hero?" Gnawdoom chittered before continuing.

"Quite devious, almost impressive. No, they are not my...friends… one shudders at the word… no, they are underlings, underlings that if found will be flayed for their betrayal."

Celica laughed.

 _Does she… does she think I am joking? Their punishments must serve to remind the other Stormvermin that one does not simply abandon their-_

"Then, do you need a place to stay, or maybe food? I know a place and I can pay for the both of you. I'd like to hear your story. My name is Celica and I'm a-" She had extended her hand again but froze. Understandably, she didn't want to just out and say that she had just been coronated.

"I'm a… priestess. Of Mila."

Internally, Gnawdoom was grinning. She really was just naive, and this meant that he could use her to his advantage. And he was quite peckish - being mortally wounded does that, he supposed. He looked over at Kreeshin, who was feeding on the remains of the fallen Stormvermin rather vigorously less than a foot away, thankfully out of Celica's peripheral vision.

"Ah, and I'm to expect this out of the kindness of your own heart? Very well, we shall indulge you for now, but do not expect us to take any exploitation lightly. I am Grey Seer Meek Gnawdoom, Patriarch of Clan Corbin, favored of the Council and the Horned One, defiler of La Maisontaal and-"

"Nice to meet you, Meek." She said warmly, grasping his paw and shaking it. Gnawdoom was stunned. He had never been interrupted like that. In fact, he had scorched lesser Skaven for much less. He wasn't even sure if fury was the right word to describe the feeling, but he could hardly act on it regardless.

"Er… Gnawdoom is fine. Or Grey Seer. Anyway this - actually, Most Prominent One would work too, as would Patriach Gnawdoom - er, anyway this is Kreeshin, a warrior of my Clan who has fought-killed his way to the upper echelons of our soldiers." Before she could look, Gnawdoom leaned over and slammed a gnarled fist onto Kreeshin's tail, and in response Kreeshin squeaked, turned and prepared to growl. He was met with Celica's outstretched hand. She spoke first.

"Oh, did I step on your tail? I'm sorry, I hadn't seen it." Celica had observed the warrior's yelp of pain, and that he now rubbed his tail, and shot the black rat a warm smile. Kreeshin thought, however briefly, on stepping forward and giving his halberd another swing, but the wicked glares coming from the Grey Seer put paid to those thoughts.

The Grey Seer's voice was slithery, ancient, and tired - Celica couldn't help but hear years of experience behind every raspy word he uttered.

"Yes-yes, Kreeshin, is a good servant, a loyal one, no less - you will come to appreciate this, once we find the others, your Eminence." Gnawdoom extended a claw to a group of small boulders nearby, which Kreeshin understood as an order. He placed his halberd on the ground, and then after lumbering over to the rocks, he heaved and carried the two rocks over, one at a time. He dropped the one placed at Celica's feet - not that she noticed Kreeshin's meagre sign of disrespect - and submissively placed one at the sorcerer's footpaws. Then, the Fangleader grabbed his weapon and stood firmly at the wizard's side.

"Now….priestess…" Gnawdoom seemed to wince at saying the word.

"It seems that you are quite capable for someone for your feeble disposition. Might I ask why you are in the possession of such skills and power? Not all are gifted with the Winds, my dear, even those blessed by their...gods."

Celica hesitated. She knew she had to play it closer to the vest than she would have at the start of her journey. But she might be turning her back on an ally, and more allies meant more chance she'd succeed. A greater chance of success meant her friends' safety. Not to mention, she could help these creatures and secure their loyalty. There was much to be done, during and after the war, and though she had never heard of them even existing in Valentia, she knew that they must be a powerful force. Not from any display thus far - the Stormvermin had routed once the battle seemed swayed against them- but rather from the sheer presence the old rat carried with him.

"I'm on a journey… well I guess you might call it a mission." She wanted to avert her eyes, but managed to keep looking at him. She had to learn to be strong, after all. And without Alm or even her friends by her side, she knew she had to draw from her own strength, even if it was inspired by his.

The old rat pulled on his whiskers and fur as if to groom himself. He ripped some robes and tabards from his fallen soldiers into ribbons and made use of them as a sort of makeshift bandage. His first aid applied, he then grinned a sly little grin.

"Please, most superfluously-dressed one, continue. Tell me _everything._ We might be able to make-strike a deal."


End file.
